


Enigma

by mareen



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 09:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/367634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mareen/pseuds/mareen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch is an enigma. Reese can't handle enigmas. AKA Hookers!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enigma

**Author's Note:**

> My beta-readers were the ever wonderful Gail and misty_anne. I took almost all of their corrections. All mistakes left are my own damn fault.

X

John poured himself a glass of water, and watched while she took off her jacket and casually put it over the back of some overly expensive wooden desk chair. The soft light from the bedside lamps did something nice to her dark blonde hair. Her clothing looked business like, but the skirt was just this side of too short and the blouse had just one button too many opened. Her neckline looked soft, and he could see the beginning of the lace of her bra. She was an attractive woman. Not beautiful, but she held herself proudly and she looked as if she knew what she wanted and how to get it. He was starting to understand why people would want her and pay for that luxury. 

He sat on the armchair by the window and sipped his water. The curtains were closed, he had checked the room for cameras and bugs before he'd invited her in. His visit to the hotel hadn't been planned, but he had learned the hard way that no matter what, you always made sure. 

"Talk me through it,” he said. "Tell me what happened.”

She tilted her head, showing off some teasingly fake confusion. "Shouldn't I rather show you? I'd find telling a rather...unsatisfactory approach.”

John blinked. He had some more water and considered his options. She just stood in front of him and waited patiently. Maybe women in her field of work dealt with indecisive customers regularly. 

He could just let her tell her story. He had of course a basic idea what it would be, but there were possibilities, ways certain things could turn out just different. People use certain words, they imply, they mean something and due to your different histories, your understanding of what they are talking about is a whole different from what they actually mean. To have her show him instead...would make this a different deal, but also give him a definite answer to his questions.

In the end, he made his decision before he could talk himself out of it again. She must have seen the change in his face, because she smiled before he even said anything. "Make it exact,” he told her. In return, she nodded at him almost courteously. 

"Tell me to take off my heels,” she said. 

John put his water on a little table beside the armchair. He took a deep breath. 

"Take off your heels," he said at last.

She made a show of slipping them off. It annoyed him for just a second, because he couldn't imagine that this would have been what Finch had wanted. A show. He would have wanted it straightforward, without games. He thought he knew him that much at last. 

Then he realized that it was what she usually did, with her clients. Play with them, trying to turn them on. It didn't matter what she did, what mattered was what he did in return. So he did what he thought his reaction should be: He did nothing, he just stayed where he was, his back unconsciously going straighter. 

He could see her naked feet. No tights. When she opened another button on her blouse, he licked his upper lip. Her breasts started to show, and she smiled and walked towards him. 

"Where do you want me?” he asked, but what he really wanted to know was, where they had been. 

"Where you are is just fine.” 

He continued to just watch her while she opened his pants, but when he tried to help and pull them off, she shook her head just a little bit. He searched her face for something that could tell him how. 

John thought of how she must have felt like to him, how he'd held her, his hands on her, holding onto the same parts of her skin he was right now. He wondered if he could still feel the indents of fingers in her flesh if he just knew where to look. He realized there hadn't been much time this morning. He'd been standing waiting outside the hotel for just about 30 minutes, no time to do anything fancy in here in this room. Just enough time to get off and maybe use the facilities. He felt too hot in his skin, too excited for his own good, because this had been it. He understood. 

He never stopped looking at her, when he pulled his half-hard cock out and gave it a slow pull for good measure. Then his hands went back on the armrest to let her do the work. And he knew he'd gotten it right, because she smiled at him, as if they now shared a secret, one that at the same time made him burn with shame and want something unnamed. 

When she pulled up her skirt and sat on his lap with her back to his chest, he realized she wasn't wearing any panties underneath. Their skin was touching in just the right places. It made John groan and strain against her. 

"There wasn't any kissing," she told him softly. "Just so you know.”

She took his hands from the armrest and pushed them toward her back. He opened the latch of her bra. The skin was soft to his touch, and he licked a stripe up the line of her spine. She tasted of soap and clean sweat. He wished she hadn't showered after being with him. 

John allowed his hands to fall on her hips and held onto her, while she pushed herself up. Her hand went between her legs to guide him inside of her. All John could hear was the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. 

"Now fuck me like you fucked him," he whispered into her hair. 

X

When John stepped out of the hotel, the air was icy. The forecast had mentioned a winter storm approaching from the ocean, and John pulled his collar up to protect his face from its first offshoots. He shuddered, but it was more from the tingling in his back from his orgasm not even twenty minutes ago, than from the cold. 

He had turned off his phone, and only turned it back on when he was ten blocks from the hotel. There was an immediate beep announcing a short message. "Where are you, Mr. Reese?”, then a second short message also from Finch, sent an hour later: "We have a number.”

X

During the months they'd known each other, John had gotten used to Finch being one of the few constants in his life. He was – at the end of the day – always there, always at his side, if only through the earpiece. One of them would open a line, and they'd talk, and then just never bother to break the connection. So most of the time, instead of his voice, all he heard of Finch was typing on a keyboard, the occasional sounds of him drinking coffee, or a low cough, sometimes just his breathing. But something was always there, and Reese was always as hyper-aware of it as he was of his immediate surroundings. His universe had basically narrowed down to two things: The person behind the number, and the sound of Finch through his earpiece.

At the moment, all he heard of Finch was his low strained breathing. The way Finch was worrying without even saying a word made everything about John feel calm and safe. 

Porter had pulled a knife (butterfly, almost 4 inch long blade, obviously knew how to use it) and stabbed at John. The blade connected with the sleeve of his thick wool coat and slipped to the side without doing any damage. John grabbed Porter's knife-hand and bent it backwards at the wrist until Porter screamed in pain and the knife fell to the ground. John pushed it away with his foot.

Porter was grunting, but before he could pull himself together and grab his gun, John punched him in the stomach with his other hand and landed another punch to Porter's right side that had him fall backwards against a dumpster with a loud crash. There was a short hitch coming from the other side of the line, nothing else. Just a hitch. John took a step forward and kicked Porter in the head with the side of his shoe. It was enough to stop him from trying to get up again for a while. 

"Mr. Reese?" came Finch's voice.

"I'm fine. Tell me where McBride went."

There was a pause. Then "Turn left on Camden Avenue. He made a call, and they are regrouping. He might not be alone for long."

John started to run back up the alley, and then turned left. He could see McBride from where he was standing at the corner. He was a large man, hard to miss, and John's dismantling of Porter had only taken two minutes. Not enough time for McBride to vanish. Still, the moment Reese started walking towards him, he saw two other men join him. Reese guessed at least four guns between the three of them, maybe a knife and one or two blackjacks. 

"It seems McBride got himself some armed muscle," he said. "They are on the move to get the money.”

"I am passing this on to Detective Fusco." There was the sound of dialing, then Fusco's voice sounded through the earpiece. 

John tuned their conversation out. He had almost reached McBride and his goons, and unconsciously let his shoulders fall, bend forward a bit and pulled his head in. There was a man almost as tall as him walking on the sidewalk, and John fell back behind him just before he reached McBride. 

The next moment, he heard a shot. Someone screamed. The man in front of him dropped to the ground. Blood started to gush from his chest and back and mingled with the last bit of late January snow. John's hand went for his gun before he even thought about it. He felt blood on his forehead. Not his own. He blinked, as it hit his eyelid.

"Not him! The other guy, the other guy!” McBride was screaming. 

Police sirens in the distance. Carter would not be happy. 

X

The man was not too tall, but solidly built, with broad shoulders and strong hips. John's eyes roamed over his arms, down his back, over his naked ass, and his legs. The hotel lights were shining on his dark hair. He was on the bed, on his hands and knees, with his head hung low between his shoulders. John couldn't see his cock, but he could see one of the man's hands just holding onto it. He was panting softly as he spoke. 

"We were on the bed," he whispered. "He was behind me... Can I please move my hand?"

"Not unless he let you, too." John put his pants and underwear on the sofa. His shoes were standing side by side by the bed, his socks stuffed into them. The man groaned, but didn't move.

"He kept his shirt on?" John asked. His hand moved to his cock by its own volition. He grasped it at the base, and forced himself to calm down. The need to just...do something right now was still there, but he had tuned it down to something manageable.

"Yes...."

He had never actually seen it, but Finch's back was probably full of scars and he might not want anyone to see that. John stored that information away for later pondering, then lay on his side on the bed and ran his finger down the man's spine. When he shuddered, John did it again. 

"Did he just fuck you or jerk you off, too?" he asked softly. 

"Fucked me. Then had me jerk off myself."

John took a shuddering breath. His arousal was like a hot sting in the middle of his stomach. He was shaking when he took the lubricant from beside the man's head and spread it on his fingers. "Lie down like you did with him,” he said. The man pushed backwards until they were chest to back, then pulled his knees up. "Like that,” he whispered. "He...” John pushed two fingers in without warning, and the man stiffened momentarily, then relaxed. 

"Did he say anything to you?" John asked. 

"Yes." A breathy whisper. John had found a slow rhythm He felt the man going slack under his fingers and went a bit deeper, which got him a moan and a forehead hitting the covers. His legs spread a bit to give John better access to his body. 

"Tell me what he said." John ached, but not yet. Not yet. 

"That the world is a dangerous place." He turned his head and looked at John. "And to always watch where I'm going." His eyes were pleading and he was breathing harshly. His hips were moving against John's fingers. "Now please? He...he just did it."

"Yeah," John said. His voice was a breathy whisper. He wished Finch hadn't used a condom. 

X

What he learned: Finch didn't kiss. Finch always used condoms. Finch liked to take control as much as he liked to give up control. Finch liked it when they touched themselves. Finch did not like them looking at him. He had no preference regarding males or females. That was the most surprising thing of all.  
X

In early March, they saved another lawyer from a vengeful former client (he did not lose the case on purpose, he was just a bad lawyer.), a successful dance instructor from a less successful dance instructor (no, John did not need to dance, even though Finch tried to find all kinds of excuses for him to end up doing the tango), and a kindergarten teacher from her violent drug dealer (Reese dropped her off at rehab right after he dropped the dealer). 

John felt a bit exhausted at that point, as the numbers came and came, without a break, as if after a relatively peaceful Christmas time people had now gone back with a vengeance to wanting to kill each other. Finch actually looked tired, too, but just like John, he did not ask for a break. 

They just kept going. 

By mid-March, they got the number of a bar owner named Claudia Morgan. College educated, worked at Wall Street until she'd decided that it just wasn't her thing and instead took over her uncle's bar in Queens after his death. She worked the bar herself - with the help of the oldest waiter John had ever seen in his life - made great cocktails whenever her former colleagues showed up to see how she was doing, and most of the time just gave out beer to the regulars and talked to everybody who needed a sympathetic ear. 

Reese had gotten himself a beer he wasn't drinking (and a soda he was), and held onto both while he watched the bar's patrons on a regular night. Finch suspected she might be selling drugs to her ex-colleagues during their regular visits, who then resold at Wall Street. But so far, John had seen no proof of that. In fact, he'd seen nothing interesting at all. 

"Mr. Reese,” Finch came through the earpiece, "anything happening?”

"Nothing.” John watched Claudia having a laugh with a female customer who couldn't take her eyes off some guy in the corner playing pool. John looked from one to the other and just for a second wondered if either of these people would be Finch's type, if he had a type at all. Would he touch them? Would he let them look at him? What would it take to get Finch to change his behavior drastically? A certain kind of person? A specific situation? A kink John had yet to figure out, that would solve this puzzle? He frowned and shook himself out of it. 

"Hey, Finch,” he said, "have a drink with me?”

He could basically hear Finch's disapproval through the open line even though there was only silence.

"I'm having soda, Finch. Relax. You can have tea, if you want to.”

There was another moment silence, then the sound of liquid being poured into a mug. John smirked. "Good boy.”

"Mr. Reese...,” came the immediate warning, but he could hear the half-hidden amusement in the sound of Finch's voice. 

They drank in silence. John watched the other patrons, and Claudia joking and laughing with them. Everybody seemed to like her. There was nothing suspicious going on, at least right now, and John felt himself relaxing for the first time in weeks. It was almost nice, as if he had a normal white collar job and and was out having an after-work drink, to come down from the stress of the day. 

John leaned back into his chair. 

"Harold?” he said. 

A pause. "Yes, Mr. Reese?”

"When is your birthday? Maybe I am going to get you a present.”

Nothing. Then: "I do not need presents, Mr. Reese.” 

"You gave me one. There was no card, but who else would leave a first edition of Heart of Darkness in my hotel room. So it would only be fair to know yours, too.”

"Harold Finch doesn't even exist.”

"Okay then.” Reese darkly laughed into his soda. "You know, this is just really cozy. You. Me. A bar. Drinks. Nice conversation. We should move this talk to other, more personal stuff.” As he said it, he meant it as a joke. But the reality of it was, that Finch was not actually trusting him. There were still things – secrets – he didn't think John fit to know, and that John – or Fusco – had not been able to figure out. John felt his insides clench in a sudden fit of disappointment and anger. His voice hardened with fake humor. "Tell me, Finch, do you have a second lair somewhere?”

"Mr. Reese...”

"With another broken ex-agent doing jobs for you?”

"Mr. Reese...”

"You should tell me. Maybe we can get together and figure out what to get you for your birthday, whenever it is.” God, he wanted a beer. 

A pause. Then "It's in November, John.”

John smirked. "Yours or Harold Finch's?”  
Finch was obviously hesitating. Then he continued as if he hadn't heard John's question. "Pick a day of your liking, Mr. Reese.”

"In November?” John answered. 

He knew Harold was just rolling his eyes at this point. "Yes, John, in November.”

John took another sip of his soda. "I'll get you something nice,” he said. He went back to watching Claudia Morgan. Had some more soda. Ate a cracker or two. 

"There is no other ex-agent,” Finch said. 

Something inside of him unclenched. 

"I am starting to wonder though, if there is another billionaire sending you out on odd jobs,” Finch continued. "Considering how often you have been disconnecting your phone lately.”

"I'm surprised you noticed, Harold, considering how often you do the same,” John answered. He just let it hang there, the underlying accusation, his need for an answer. The other end of the line stayed silent. 

X

It turned out, Claudia Morgan's ex-ex-boyfriend had died in an "accident” and his parents – tired of the police not believing them - had paid someone to kill her in retaliation. 

The day after they handed Claudia over to Fusco, Finch met with a woman with a short black pixie haircut in a surprisingly dingy hotel room in Queens. The hotel was way below his usual standards, and the woman was younger than the usual women Finch booked. 

"Did he ask for you specifically?” John asked her. 

"No.” She didn't look at him, just continued taking off her shirt and then bra. "He asked for someone who was free right then. Didn't even care if it was a man or a woman.”

"He couldn't wait.”

"Obviously not.” She turned. "Now what?”

"Just do whatever you did with him.”

She squinted at him. "Right. Well, come on then...”

It was a surprise, because Finch had never done something like this before. When he went down on her, John thought of Finch being where he was right now only a few hours earlier, and he tried to figure out why. Why this, why with her? What had made her different, what had made this day different? Why was he breaking his habits? Was there even a reason? 

He turned the thought around in his head over and over. He licked her until she was wet, pushed his fingers into her until she shuddered and lost her rhythm on his cock, and all the while he couldn't stop thinking and wondering about Finch doing the same thing, not even when he came. 

X

After three months and six escorts, Reese had been able to figure out some rules that seemed to apply in a general sense:  
Finch was no one's regular. Finch didn't even use the same hotel twice. He seemed to choose the men and women he booked by no rules or special preferences in regards to their looks. He didn't seem to like them too young though, as they were all in their early thirties to late thirties. Sometimes there were just blowjobs, but most of the time they had intercourse, with the one memorable exception of the pixy-haired woman in Queens. 

John had yet to come across the first guy Finch let fuck him, and something in him was desperate for that one, to figure out what would make him different.

Finch never told them a name and never asked for theirs. He always paid upfront and generously, and took a shower before he left. He would sometimes go weeks without seeing anyone (even though Reese suspected that maybe he was missing some), then see two in a week. But none of them twice. There wasn't anyone special, there were no whispers in the dark about his secrets with anyone of them, at least none that Reese was able to confirm. It was just sex. It was...mundane, in a way, but at the same time it was not. It was the most personal information he had ever managed to find out about Finch. It was a rush. 

X

In mid-April, John almost got Carter killed. The bullet hit an artery in her left thigh. She didn't bleed out in under ten minutes only because John was right there and immediately ligated the wound with his pristine white shirt. The perp (their number) got away, and for the next five days they didn't find a trace of him again. At that point, they had another number and John was at the same time trying to juggle the two numbers in addition to lurking outside of Carter's hospital room to check on her. In the middle of all of that, he started to wonder if his life would be easier right now if there was a second ex-agent out there somewhere. At least then he could get more than 2 hours sleep a day. 

Also, Finch was in the worst mood John had ever seen him in. 

In fact, he had been in a bad mood even before Carter was shot. He had disagreed with John's plan that he needed Carter's help on this case, someone he could trust not to leave him stuck in some corner if the shit hit the fan, on top of not being afraid of guns. 

After Carter ended up in the hospital, Reese took one look at Finch and immediately knew that he was this close to saying "I told you so.” and only held himself back because he was too busy being royally pissed off to even talk to John. 

John couldn't really make sense of it. Finch's antagonism towards Reese telling Carter about their little operation had been palpable from the first time Reese had met her in that diner so many months ago. 

He had never rejected Fusco's involvement, and always trusted Reese's decisions, but Carter had been a whole different story altogether. It made no sense to John at all, because he had learned early and painfully that it was always better to have another string to your bow, especially when those two strings didn't know about each other and therefore couldn't conspire against you. 

Finch of all people should understand that, instead of playing a passive-aggressive game of frowning deeply and disapprovingly at the slightest mention of John meeting with Carter somewhere. It obviously wasn't even that he did not like Carter, he just didn't like John spending too much time with Carter for fear of his secrets. 

"Mr. Reese, are you at the hospital?” came the disembodied and unemotional voice through the earpiece. He knew that sound. Finch had an actual "I do not care” voice, an "I do care” voice and an "I do care but I want you to believe I do not” voice. It was obviously the latter in this case. 

"Yes,” Reese answered. Carter was awake and he helped her with some water. She was still hitched to all kinds of machines monitoring her body functions, so he held her head while she took little sips. 

"How is Detective Carter?” 

John looked at her. She was exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and her skin having a sick, chalk-like tone to it. Moving was hard for her, and seemed to be painful, in spite of the medication she was getting through one of her IVs. But the spark at least was back in her eyes. 

"She's better,” John said. Carter nodded her thanks for the water, then fell back into her cushion. 

"Give her my regards,” Finch said. "But I need you back at the library. I have new information about the shooter.”

John nodded to himself. "I'll be there shortly. " He broke the connection and turned back to Carter to say his excuses. She was waving her hand tiredly. 

"Go and do whatever you have to do.” She must have seen something on his face, because she immediately continued, "And don't feel responsible, John. You didn't shoot me.”

"I asked you to be there. I was distracted when I shouldn't have been.” 

Carter shook her head. The pain was palpable on her face, and John felt another sting of remorse. "It could have happened during any case I'm working on. This is not your fault. Just find the man who shot me.”

"I will.” He squeezed her hand. "Get well soon. From him, too.” John pointed to his earpiece. He moved towards the door, but was held back from her voice. 

"And I owe you one of your nice white shirts,” she said with a sleepy voice. When he turned around, her eyes were already closed. 

When John entered the library, Finch was standing with his back to the door, and was putting up pictures and print-outs on the whiteboard. 

"You are spending quite a lot of time at the hospital.”

John stood beside Finch and let his eyes glide over the information Finch had dug up. He knitted his brow when he noticed Finch could have told him just as much over the phone. He didn't need to be here, instead he could be out on the street, actively hunting Samuel Winter, the man responsible for Carter being wounded. 

"I got Carter shot,” he answered absentmindedly. According to the print out from CPS Finch had fixed on the board, Winter had a younger brother who had been adopted into a different family at age eight. If Winter knew about him, he could be trying to reach him to get his help.

"Is that what she said?” Finch said with a dark voice. 

John glanced at him, surprised. "She said the opposite.”

Finch moved over to his computer and sat down. He had his head down, and never met John's eyes. "Good.” 

John moved around the computer to stand in front of him. "She is one of the good guys, Finch. You can trust her.”

"I know that you trust her, and whatever you might tell her about yourself has no meaning to me, but you can never tell her about the Machine. Never.” He had a hard look on his face when he gazed at John. "I hope we are clear about that.”

John was starting to wonder if there was a second conversation going on here that he was not aware of. "Harold, I will not tell her about the machine. Carter is an asset. That is the only part she has in our operation.”

"You do not have to explain your private relations to me, Mr. Reese.”

"There are no private relations,” he answered, exasperated. "I am visiting her in the hospital because I am a human being, and I feel sorry for what I let happen to her.” The moment he said it, he was already sorry. Finch's face had closed off. He had not visited Carter once. John took a deep breath. "That's not what I meant.”

"I have the address of Samuel Winter's brother. I am sending it to your phone.”

"Harold...”

"You should hurry, Mr. Reese.” It was as if Finch had shut the blinds and was out of office for the day. There seemed to be a wall between them, an even bigger one than usual. 

John's phone beeped with the arrival of the short message. He started to say something, stopped, began walking to the door instead, but turned at the last moment and walked back to Finch's desk. He could not leave like this. 

"Carter is an asset. She is not my friend, I am not sleeping with her, and I don't plan to. I admire her because she is a good cop and she never... _tainted_ herself in the line of duty. But she will always be an outsider. This,” he pointed to the computers, the library, everything. "This is between you and me, nobody else.”

Finch finally looked up and owlishly blinked at him from behind his glasses. Once, twice. Then his whole face seemed to relax, as if something heavy had fallen off his shoulders. Just as suddenly as it had happened, Finch seemed to catch on to what he was letting John see, and abruptly turned back towards his computer and started typing away on the keyboard. 

Reese still stared at him. 

The desire was so sudden and desperate; John hardly managed to keep his face straight. He starred at Finch's left shoulder, hidden underneath his expensive suit, and wondered how he had been so stupid. So absolutely unaware of his own feelings and needs, and out of touch with his motivations. He wanted so much to just curl himself around Finch, the thought alone made him shiver. He felt ice-cold with dread. 

X

John caught up with Samuel Winter at his brother's house. He refrained from kneecapping the guy, even though he was seriously tempted. But he was an uncle, and the children were at home, so John just pulled him silently (if a bit violently) out the back door and left him in front of Carter's precinct, chained to his own car. 

He concentrated on the job at hand the whole time. Forced himself to not think about Finch even once. 

X

John spent the rest of April actively not thinking about Finch. He was like the elephant in the room, keeping him on edge, on the verge of breaking. Every few weeks, Fusco would call him and tell him the name of a hotel, and instead of thinking about Finch, he fucked those people instead, touched the same places on their bodies Finch had touched. It was his only outlet, his way to let loose. 

He felt horrible. 

X

In mid-June, the Machine gave them the number of a used car salesman named Harry Rosen, who had somehow managed to piss off an entire gang of thugs with huge guns who were controlling three blocks around his business and tried to get him to pay for "protection.” He had respectfully declined. 

"I sometimes wonder if you are enjoying this a bit too much,” Finch said beside him, while John shouldered his M25 and started loading the Glock. 

John gave him a short look. "The guns?”

"Putting me in the middle of these operations.”

"Why would I be enjoying that, Finch?” John said with a smirk. 

"I don't know, Mr. Reese.” He frowned when John offered him the Glock. "You tell me.” 

John smiled reassuringly. "It's just a precaution. I need you out here, but the way these guys have gunned up, I don't want you close to them without protection.” Finch still looked at the gun doubtfully, so he added "It's either that or eye-poking.” The gun vanished in Finch's coat pocket with a sigh. "Relax. They won't get far enough to reach you.”

Finch gave him a long look. "Tell me what you need me to do,” he said at last. 

Fifteen minutes later, they were closer to Finch's position than Reese had ever planned them to be. Reese was kicking one of the gang members in the stomach before he shot him in the shoulder with his second Glock, when he saw Finch stagger and fall oto the ground out of the corner of his eye. 

He flinched in sympathy. The pain must have been excruciating from the look on Finch's face when he landed on his back. The next moment, he realized why Finch had stumbled backwards and consequently fallen. There was one of the gang members standing not ten feet to his left, a gun in his hand and slowly lifting it to point it at his head. 

Reese felt everything clench inside of him. Time seemed to slow down, he was moving through molasses. He blinked hard, once, twice, trying to make himself get a grip. Time stopped, he shook himself, in his head he heard his own frantic voice screaming at him to Go go go.  
The next moment, time seemed to restart. It was like a rush, a wave crashing down on him. He gasped. 

John shot the second thug in front of him just above the right hand, then twisted around to get a better shot at the one threatening Finch. 

Finch had his gun out, but it was already too late. He was staring right into the barrel of a Smith & Wesson, unmoving, a look of shock on his face. Reese didn't even have time to aim, he just pointed and shot, then shot again without waiting to see if the first bullet had hit its target. The man screamed and fell back, and John fired again for good measure. Then he spun around and aimed at a fourth man, coming around a corner. Blood was rushing in his ears. His finger curled around the trigger. The man at the corner was holding a paper bag. There was a pineapple sticking out at its top. Their eyes met, and the man opened his mouth, to scream, to call out. He couldn't say. 

John's finger almost spasmed from forcing himself to release the trigger and drop his gun. He watched the man running away, back around the street corner. For a second, he just breathed deeply. 

Then: "Finch?” he called. His eyes roamed the street to check for other gang members, but there wasn't anything moving. "Finch?”

"I'm...fine, I think,” Finch answered. He was still lying on the ground, still holding on to the gun. The man who had almost shot him just a second ago was now bleeding out on the street. There was the sound of police cars near by. Reese ran over and grabbed Finch's arm to help him up. "How's the back?” he said. Finch didn't answer, which probably meant it hurt like hell. 

Together, they made it to their car. Finch tried to fight him, but Reese didn't accept his no, and had him lie on the back seat to take the strain off of his back. 

They drove. 

X

Later, when he had turned in for the night, Reese realized that he had choked. It had felt like an eternity, but it had taken him less than a second to get a grip on himself. Still, it had been a choke. 

He stared at himself in the mirror and splashed his face with cold water. It had been years since his last choke, and back then he had been at base and not in the middle of a shoot-out. He was called to an office, and they told him she was dead. He had no idea why they would tell him, why they would care. He still didn't. He'd just stood there, without being aware of his surroundings, until the Deputy Director repeatedly bellowed his name and pulled him out of his stupor. He was sent on a job the same night. His hands were steady as ever, the shot was clean, death of his target immediate. 

John stared at his hands. It was almost impossible to see, but there was a slight shake. A tiny tremor.

X

It was a week before Fusco called him about Finch going to another hotel. 

John wanted to ignore it, he really wanted to. But whenever he looked at Finch, what he saw was the gun pointed at his face, and he thought of what a close call it had been. He wanted to touch Finch, grab his arm, put his hand on his back. But he couldn't. That wasn't who they were. So he did the next best thing, he got close to someone who had gotten close to Finch. It was almost as good. Almost. 

He was sitting with his back against the headboard of a bed in a expensive hotel in Lower Manhattan. His legs were stretched, and there was a man in his lap, his back to John's chest, riding him with slow, deep thrusts, that John rewarded with kisses to his shoulders and neck. They were both sweaty, and John's hands were slipping on the man's neck where he was holding on to him. It was intimate, slow and intimate. He was gasping into the man's hair. 

"What did he say to you?” John whispered. "Tell me about him.”

They both moaned softly when the escort ground down. "Nothing.” He didn't stop moving, just continued fucking himself, his voice breathless."He said nothing. Just told me how he wanted it... This is nice...Really nice.” He leaned back as if for a kiss, but John turned his head aside and mouthed his shoulder instead. "He did ask for me specifically though. Pulled me from a picture book.”

John stopped. He leaned back and looked over the man's shoulder, towards a mirror opposite the bed. Over there, he could see the man's face, and he looked, really looked for the first time. Late thirties. Dark hair, strong cheekbones, broad shoulders, athletic build. Nothing unusual. But there was something intense about his face, and when he ground down again, and made John moan from deep in his throat, he realized there was something mischievous there, too, that he hadn't noticed at first. Some dark, hidden humor. 

"Really,” he whispered back, intrigued. "And what makes you so special?”

X

When he left the hotel later that night, it was dark already and raining in small drops that lay on his hair and face. He was still hot from his shower, and the rain gave him a welcome cool down, but still he hurried to get to his car, parked three blocks down the road. 

He was pondering that man. That man and Finch, and the reason behind the break of pattern. Why the sudden type? Why suddenly pick someone from a picture book? He had asked the escort about any specialties, and there certainly were some and they had been listed in that book beside his picture. But fact was, Finch hadn't asked for any of those specialties, so they had not been the reason Finch had wanted him. 

If it had been the way the man looked, then there might be a pattern here he hadn't really seen before. Some reasoning behind it. 

John pulled his keys from the inside of his jacket and started jogging over the street to his car. There was the loud sound of screeching tires, way too close. John was startled out of his thoughts, and jumped back, but he still felt the bumper of a car hitting his legs. Not too painful because the driver had hit the brakes, but he was pushed, and his hands landed hard on the car's hood, when he tried to hold his balance.

The angry sound of the car's horn started to blast into the night. John took a deep breath. He soundlessly mouthed a sorry, then hurried over to his own car. 

When he sat behind the wheel, he grabbed it with both of his hands. Rain was dripping in his eyes. He was shaking, but not because he'd almost been run over just now, but because comprehension started to dawn on him. About something he had blissfully ignored. For good reason obviously. 

First Carter, now Finch. 

For the second time in hardly two months he had almost gotten one of the three people remotely close to him killed. He was distracted. He broke contact to have sex with hookers. He choked, because of some ill-fated urges that had no future and could only end in the destruction of his relationship with Finch. 

There was a fine line between wanting to know who you are working for – especially when you already ended up working for the wrong people before – and...this thing he was doing, which was certainly not normal behavior, not even for a person with a history like his. 

John turned on his phone. He started the car. 

X

So he stopped. Cold turkey. He did his job, they got new numbers, they saved people. Finch continued to go off the grid, not regularly, but whenever he did, Fusco was there as per John's instructions, and called him about hotels Finch went to. John never followed up on it, but he did want to know about it, like a punishment. 

At night, he sometimes lay awake, his fingers crossed over his stomach, his mind full of thoughts of Finch, and Finch, and Finch and those other people he spent his time with, whom he opened up to in a way. He showed them truths about himself he didn't and would never show John. Trusted them. Other people, outsiders, while he held John at arm's length, and they took one step forward, two steps back in their personal relationship. John turned those thoughts around in his head, turned them, turned them, over and over again. He felt like he was going crazy with it. 

All day, he found himself standing behind Finch, staring at the line of his neck vanishing under his suit, thinking about the scars he imagined were hiding under the soft material. He wondered if anyone except Finch's doctors had ever been allowed to see them, touch them, what it would take for an outsider to have that for himself. When he didn't stare at Finch's back, he stared at his fingers and imagined the people those fingers touched. He watched him typing away on the keyboard, and he couldn't stop wondering, thinking, wanting. Desperately. 

X

In late July, there was a sudden heat wave that made Finch discard his suit, and instead opt for a light shirt with rolled up sleeves. John was glad he had an excuse to leave to follow up on a lead, once he noticed that the heat was giving Finch's face a slight flush, and made the skin of his naked neck and lower arms slightly damp. John couldn't look away, so he'd rather not even be there. 

Her name was Marla Frost, she was a clinical psychologist, and John had been following her for a day now, trying to figure out why the Machine had spit out her SSN. Marla had been to several pawn shops all over town earlier that day, where she left silverware and gold jewelry in return for, all in all, around 350 dollars.

According to Finch she had enough money in the bank, so the only reason for her behavior John could think of was that she wanted to spend money, but she didn't want anyone to figure out she had spent it from looking at her account. When she met with some guy at a street corner somewhere later that day, he knew why.

"Finch,” he said, "anything more on Marla? She just bought herself an illegal gun.”

"There is an ex-patient who got released from a Massachusetts psychiatric hospital a week ago, where he was sent after attacking Marla in 2009. If she heard of that, she might feel threatened enough want to protect herself. His name is Jeffrey Fillory.”

"Doesn't explain why she didn't get a permit and make it legal.” 

Marla was walking down the street, her handbag with the gun in it clutched to her chest, while John followed her. There was a short pause, then Finch's voice was coming from the earpiece again. "Maybe she didn't want her fingerprints taken? I'm going to look into it and find out if she's ever been arrested. 

Marla was turning right around a corner into an alley, so John walked a bit faster to not lose her. The moment he turned the same corner Marla had a moment ago, there was a shot that hit the wall right beside his chest. 

Reese reacted without thinking. He let himself fall behind a bunch of dumpsters, just in time for a second shot. There was a short, sharp sting at the side of his head, but he ignored it, and instead pulled his gun before he even hit the ground. There were more shots fired, hitting dumpsters left and right of him. People in the street had started to scream. When John glanced over a dumpster, he could see Marla standing in the middle of the alley, her face distorted in fear. The gun was in her hand, and she was wildly pointing it around to find herself a target. 

John pointed his gun at Marla, when another bullet hit the wall above his head. It wasn't Marla who had shot; instead it came from behind him. John scrambled back to get himself a better position. 

Marla had ducked behind a discarded car, and was screaming her head off at whoever was shooting at her, and amidst all the confusion, it was only when John finally was pointing his gun at the right person that he realized that he could hear Finch's harsh breathing through his earpiece. 

"Finch,” he whispered, "Jeffrey Fillory? Blonde, balding, very tall, late 30s?”

Finch was taking a deep breath. Then he said: "Yes, that's him.”

"Just so you know, he is the one threatening Marla.”

Fillory was starting to shoot again, alternately into Marla's and John's direction. "Who is your friend, Marla?” he screamed. "Did you get yourself another boyfriend to do your dirty work?” 

The moment he started shooting in Marla's direction again, John pointed his own gun, and shot twice. He hit Fillory in the leg and his shooting arm. He fell down, screaming in pain. Marla used the moment to get up, her gun pointing at Fillory. 

"Mr. Reese?” Finch asked in his earpiece. He sounded slightly panicked. 

John stood. He had his own gun pointed at Marla and shook her head at her, while he made his way over to Fillory to disarm him. "Drop it, please, Marla. It's over.”

"It's not over!” Fillory screamed. "I'm telling everybody about you, Marla, everybody.”

John saw Marla gripping her gun harder. Without turning to Fillory, he grunted, "Shut. Up.” at him. "Marla, I will not let you shoot him.” 

"Hear that, Marla! You can't shut me up again!” 

Marla made another step towards John and Fillory. She looked desperate, almost out of her mind from fear. 

"Marla...” John said warningly. He could hear sirens coming closer. "Finch, did you call Carter?”

The answer was immediate. "She's on her way, John. It shouldn't be long.”

"Drop the gun, Marla,” John called to her. Marla's hand were shaking, so John pressed on. "Did you count your bullets, Marla? Because I did. But the police are on their way and they did not. You do not want to point a gun at the police, Marla, loaded or not.”

He could see the indecision in Marla's face, the way she looked from him to the groaning Fillory on the ground and back to him. Then finally, she slowly lowered the gun. When she let it drop, John allowed himself a sigh of relief. Marla started to cry in loud, desperate sobs. 

John sent Carter a short message saying nothing but "Sorry for the mess” while he was slowly walking away from the alley. The moment the uniforms had started filling it with their guns drawn, John had fallen into the shadows of a doorway, then made his way slowly back to his car without drawing attention to himself. 

People were looking at him strangely, but considering he had spent some time between a bunch of dumpsters, he knew he probably looked and smelled homeless again. Only when he was back at the library, Finch also took one look at him and blanched. 

"What happened to your head?” he said. 

He stood and hobbled over to John, only to stop right in front of him and stare intently at John's right temple. John touched his hand to it and rubbed. Flecks of dried blood came off and stuck to his fingertips. With the adrenaline wearing off, he finally became aware of the burning pain. He shrugged. "Bullet graze.”

"To your _head_?”

John took off his jacket. It looked absolutely ruined. "Relax, Finch. I'm fine.”

Finch hmph-ed. "Sit,” he said darkly, and the sound of his voice made John immediately obey. Finch limped to the next room, and returned with the first aid-kit a moment later. 

He pulled some gauze and antiseptic and stood in front of John. "Tilt your head back,” he said. 

John did what he said. He watched Finch's fingers while they dabbed at the wound. The antiseptic stung when it came in contact with the wound, but John hardly noticed. He strained to find a trace of Finch under the smell of disinfect, but if it was there, it was overlayed. 

"It doesn't look that bad, Mr. Reese.”

"I told you,” John said softly, "it's just a graze. I've had worse.”

He felt Finch's breath on his face. "I know,” he answered, just as softly. His fingers touched John's brow, when he put a band-aid on the wound. He seemed to linger there, and John yearned to lean into the touch. But then Finch just pressed the band-aid more firmly against John's skin and pulled back. 

"There...” he said. He blinked, then turned and walked to his desk. "You should be more careful.”

"I will,” John answered. He stood abruptly when he became aware what was happening again. How he was falling into his self-made trap again. "Call me when we have a new number, Finch.” He fled. 

X

A day later, he hadn't had a call from Finch about a new number. What he did get was a call from Fusco though. 

"Our mutual friend is on the move again,” Fusco said as way of greeting. 

"I don't want to hear it, Lionel. You are released of this assignment.”

"...to the same hotel he's been to before” Fusco continued. His voice had it's usual half-annoyed sound to it. "That qualifies as a repeat in your book, doesn't it? I thought you would want to know.”

And that was it, right? The thing he had been searching for, all this time. Some sort of pattern that could tell him something about Finch, explain to him his secrets. Some explanation for everything. Only that none of this would ever tell him anything important about Finch, other than his sexual preferences. Which didn't mean a thing in the larger scale of things. Nothing at all. It never had. Everything it had actually done was show John something about himself. About what he wanted, and how his own mind was ticking. And maybe that made it better, really, knowing that it was about him wanting Finch, not about him wanting to know about Finch. 

It made falling so much easier, but not less painful. 

X

John took deep calming breaths when he slowly slid into the man above him. It was the man from the picture book again, the only one of them Finch had chosen for his looks. He was fidgeting, and John grabbed at his back, slick and sweaty, then had his hands glide down to his ass to hold him still. He had never fucked anyone of them like this, face to face. The women yes, the men no. So this one was special, and he still didn't know why. 

Their faces were so close they could have kissed if they wanted to (oh, and how much John missed kissing, but Finch never kissed, so John didn't either, and he didn't want to kiss this man anyway).

Morbidly, he still wanted to know, needed to. "Did he kiss you?” he asked. 

The man ground down against him. "No,” he answered. His cock was straining against John's stomach, but John didn't touch it. Couldn't. 

John sighed, relaxed a bit. He held onto the body above him, hid his head in the side of his neck. He was hard too, as ready as he had been with every one of them. But if the service in the military and CIA had ever taught him anything, it was to separate his mind from his body. And yes, his body was working perfectly. He was having an erection as he was supposed to be, his body was seriously turned on by the intimacy, but he had to hold onto it with everything he got. Had to force himself to not just push the man away, put on his clothes and leave this shitty expensive hotel room, sickened by himself and what he was doing. The only thing that stopped him from just running away, was the thought of his fingers where Finch's had been, of finding a residue of heat there, crazy as it was. 

"Like this?" he gritted out. He allowed a short thrust that made the man in his lap groan. John stared at the wall behind his back, turned his head aside to not breathe in the unfamiliar scent. He could feel the man nod against his neck. "Now tell me what he said to you." 

The escort twisted and forced John to look at his face. He grinned lazily. "He said “What are you doing, John?”.” He laughed softly, and nuzzled open-mouthed at John's neck. "That's you, right? John? Sounds like a message to me.”

X

John drove aimlessly around New York, never bothering to turn his phone back on. 

Finch knew. 

Finch. Knew. 

How he hadn't even considered this ever happening, hadn't seen it already happening – especially knowing Finch – was just more proof of how he was unfit for this job. He was so fucking disgusted with himself, for what he'd done the last few months, for believing he could hide it from Finch, for destroying the one good thing he had in his life. What he really wanted to do was drive out of the city, out of the state. Just be somewhere else, be away from himself. 

He passed a liquor shop, and for a moment thought very hard about stopping the car and getting himself a bottle of Jack. But he could actually hear Finch's scolding "Mr. Reese...” in his head, and something in him still wanted to listen to it, wanted to be the man Finch had seen and wanted to be his partner. So he drove past and didn't stop until he found himself at Wall Street, without actually knowing how he got there or why. 

For a while he sat in the car, his hands gripping the wheel, and just stared at the people walking by towards the lights of the ferry to New Jersey. He couldn't bear the narrow confines of the car for long though, so he got out and trotted after them towards the harbor, only stopping at a small deli where he ordered himself a black, no sugar coffee. 

After he had paid the fare, John stood on the upper deck of the 8:15 pm ferry making its way towards Hoboken. The wind was harsh and icy on his face, the cheap, and already bitter, coffee hardly hot enough to keep him warm. The air smelled of salt. The sound of waves drowned out the voices of his fellow passengers. His mind was blissfully blank. 

Then he realized, that from the place he was standing, he was able to count three security cameras, all of them mysteriously pointing in his direction. John stared up at them, sipping his coffee, and blinking against the wind. 

He pulled his cell from his breast pocket, and held it up to the cameras. There was no reaction. They just seemed to stare back at him, unmoving, all-seeing eyes. Machines. John turned on the phone, and put his earpiece back in. On the other end of the line, he could hear familiar breathing. Soft, and almost intimate. Close. 

"John.” The voice sounded helpless.  
X

When he entered the library close to midnight, Finch was sitting at his usual place at his desk, his face looking slightly blue from the light of his computer monitors. They were giving off the only light in the room. 

Finch glanced over John, obviously avoiding his eyes and stared back at whatever he was seeing on his screen. There was nothing on his face telling John anything about what he was thinking or feeling. 

"We have a number,” he said. 

John had prepared himself for everything, but not this, and it made him momentarily speechless. He just stood there and looked at Finch who wouldn't look back at him. And for a second it felt good and right to have the obvious permission to sweep this whole thing under the rug and never talk of it again. And he wanted to follow Finch's lead in this, wanted to be a partner to him again, not a liability. 

But then of course he knew that wouldn't work. He knew that if they went down that road it would all eventually blow up in their faces, either because Finch was as disgusted by John as John was by himself, or because John would fall back into his out-of-bounds behavior. 

He looked at Finch, at his closed-off face illuminated by the monitor light, at his typing fingers, the straight back. 

He thought of how Finch was the most brilliant person he had ever met, that he was so brilliant, he had built a machine that was able to find order in the smallest clues, how that was basically the only thing he knew about this man. This one enormous thing, and a few precious tiny little things, like Eggs Benedict, and that he didn't like to kiss hookers, and might not like to kiss at all. 

And then he thought how he had never felt as complete and whole as he did since they had met...and he wanted him. He wanted him so much for himself, he could hardly breathe.

"You know,” John told him softly, "I'd rather not.”

Finch looked bewildered. For the first time, he met John's gaze, if only for a second, before he settled on something behind John's left shoulder. "What?”

John came further into the room. He considered standing behind the desk, to keep some space between them, but then he stepped around it and stood in front of Finch instead, so close their legs almost touched. He looked down at him. "I fucked escorts because you fucked them first. I think we should talk about that, don't you, Harold? Then we can continue saving people if you still want to.”

Finch pushed back his chair and made some space between them. He stood, smoothed out his suit, and unnecessarily adjusted his tie. He turned towards the whiteboard. 

"This is a rather urgent case, Mr. Reese. We can talk afterward.”

"No.”

Finch straightened. When he turned to John and fixed him, his face was a hard, almost angry mask. It hurt to see him like this. "Excuse me?”

John moved towards him. Finch stood his ground. "You want to go back to business as usual, and I understand. I want that, too. I...” he faltered. "I am just not sure I can.” He felt himself hunch, almost faltering into himself. "Don't you want to ask me why I did it?”

Finch grimaced. "Oh, I know why you did it,” he drawled. "This is your idea of controlling the situation.” He took a step towards John. It brought them so close together, John almost gasped. "We both know how hard you tried to find something on me, to put us on even ground,” Finch continued. "But you can't, so you try to exercise a different kind of control by proving your virility compared to that of the cripple.”

He nodded to himself once, then limped around John to stand in front of the whiteboard. The way he stood there, in his pristine suit, his back even more straight than usual, he looked like a college professor holding a lecture, not like a billionaire who believed his hired gun was proving his manliness by being a better fuck than him to a bunch of prostitutes. 

"It's...understandable,” Finch said. "and that you feel this way won't threaten our professional  
relationship, Mr. Reese. Our work is too important for that. Now can we go back to our new number?” 

He grabbed a pen and started to write "Carol Abernathy” under a picture he must have put up earlier. She was an elderly blonde, with glasses and a small smile on her face. She looked nice. 

John stepped forward until they were standing side by side, and both fixing their eyes on Carol's face. "Oh Harold,” John said. "You are a genius, but that's really not it at all.”

Finch's hand on the board faltered, then resumed writing "Teacher”. John put his hand on Finch's, and stopped all movement. The skin was warm and dry, softer than he'd imagined. John licked his lips. His throat felt too dry. 

Finch sounded as breathless as John felt. "John...,” he rasped. 

John pushed their hands down. They turned to face each other, and when Finch stumbled and tried to back away, John just followed him slowly, until they almost hit the window. He softly rubbed the skin between Finch's thumb and forefinger. 

"It started out differently, but in the end I just wanted to be close to you the only way I could think of,” John whispered, and saw Finch's eyes widen in response. "I'm sorry.” His eyes flickered to John's lips, then up to his eyes again. 

He had crowed Finch against the wall, their bodies close. John felt breathless. His eyes roamed over Finch's face. Finch looked back at him steadily, but for once he wasn't controlling the look in his eyes. He seemed nervous, helpless. John waited, trying to give Finch all the time he needed to push him away if he wanted to, to let him control what would happen next. John had no idea what could happen. No kissing. He remembered that. No kissing of people on the payroll. 

Finch freed his hand from where John was still holding onto it. His face was unreadable again, and disappointment raged through John like fire, sudden and fierce. But Finch just lifted his hand and pushed his fingers through the hair at the back of John's head. Slow, and deliberate, and not uncertain anymore. Not at all, especially not when he pulled John forward. 

His lips ghosted over John's, almost touching, sharing breath. John felt lighthearted. His eyes flickered close, then he felt Finch tilt his head back and pulling John even closer until their lips touched, soft and very careful. 

John's arms immediately came around Finch, carefully pulling him closer. He opened his mouth, and had the kiss turn wet and desperate. This was new. This wasn't anything they had done with any of the other ones. It was just them, here and now. He heard himself keen, and felt Finch moving against him in answer. His hands pushed under Finch's jacket, and he let his fingers dance over his back, then ran them up the line of Finch's spine. John had known of course, but he had never actually let himself _know_ what a close call it must have been for Finch. He could feel the outline of thick, hard scars through Finch's shirt, and touched them again, more reverently this time. Finch went rigid under his administrations, he moved away from John's hand, then back to it, as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to feel his hands there or not. 

The thought made him pull his hand from under Finch's jacket and soften the kiss. He touched both his hands to his cheek to explore the skin there. The stubble was scratchy under his fingers. 

Finch finally pulled back. For a moment, he allowed John to put their foreheads together, then he pushed himself away just enough to meet John's eyes. The look in his eyes was grave. 

"John...John...I...we can't do this. We are compromising everything.”

John almost smiled. "We are compromising everything either way. The only way we can stop is if you find yourself another point man.”

Finch was already shaking his head. "There is nobody else. I needed someone with very specific professional and personal qualities. And you are...quite the exceptional man.” He gave a rueful smirk, and his eyes drifted to John's lips again. For the first time, John realized that he could feel the outline of Harold's erection against his own body. He groaned, and pushed against it without even meaning to. 

"John.” Finch sounded something between annoyed and aroused. 

"Harold,” John smirked. He pushed his hand down and started rubbing circles on Finch's hip, coming dangerously close to his groin. 

"That's not helpful, Mr. Reese.”

"Oh, we are back to the last name?” This time, John's hand actually went down to Finch's groin. He cupped Finch's cock in his hand, just feeling its weight and shape. Finch's eyes closed momentarily. His breathing turned deliberate and heavy. 

John bent down and put his mouth closely beside Finch's ear. "I was a mess, Harold. I made mistakes, because I was concentrating on you instead of the job. So if we do this, I will most probably still be thinking of you most of the time, but then you can distract me in our spare time instead.” He kissed Finch's cheek, then moved on to his lips again. The kiss was close-mouthed this time, and John pulled back before it could go deeper than that. "Tell me if you don't want this.”

Finch pulled him down into another kiss. 

X

There was a spare bedroom in the library, holding a real bed and of course a closet with a bunch of spare suits. Harold looked ridiculously pleased with himself when he sat on the edge of the mattress to take off his shoes. 

"I didn't actually plan for an occasion like this, but this is the best mattress available in the country.”

John pushed his shirt off of his shoulders and enjoyed the long appraising look that got him from Harold. "Really?” he grinned. He opened his belt and moved to drop his pants. 

Finch pursed his lips. He had stopped taking off his own clothes, and instead just watched John. He looked mesmerized. "It's for my back,” he added absentmindedly. "I sometimes sleep here.”

John stepped out of his underwear, then gave his cock a long slow pull. "Really,” he drawled. He was hard, and touched himself again, just because he wanted to see Harold's pupils go even wider and darker, and his breathing more harsh. 

"You really are...” Finch started. 

John moved towards him, still touching himself. "Are you going to take off your shirt?” He hesitated to ask the question, because he still didn't know where they were standing. But he needed to know what he was allowed to do and what not. Ground rules. They were important for every operation, no matter the kind. 

Finch tore his eyes away from John's hand on his cock, and looked at his face instead. "I had four surgeries on my back, Mr. Reese,” he said matter-of-factly. "I have nails and metal rods in my neck. They are basically holding my head on my shoulders. I have enough money to prevent people from pitying me. But that doesn't mean I usually want to place myself at someone else's disposal if I don't have to.” He paused and held John's eyes. Then his hand went up to the first button of his white shirt to open it. 

John just stood in the middle of the room, watching Harold working on one button after the next, all the way down to the last one. He had stopped touching himself. The sight alone, the trust behind it, was enough to put him into an excruciating state of arousal. When Harold was in his undershirt, John finally moved. He got on the bed, then knelt behind Harold, and put his hands on both of his shoulders. His fingers moved over the skin, to the shirt. When he dragged it down, exposing the vulnerable neck, he saw goosebumps rising on Harold's back. 

The skin left and right of his upper spine was perfect, white and soft to John's touch. In the middle, a hard and fleshy scar went straight down, vanishing under the white undershirt, while more and narrow scars zig-zagged from left to right, most probably at the places where his injuries had been worse and the nails had been inserted. 

John ran his fingertip down Harold's spine, following the thickest scar until he reached the shirt, then pressed his open mouth to the hairline at his neck to kiss, then lick at the gathering sweat. He could hear Harold's breathing coming in short gasps, almost moans, and watched Harold's shaky hands move to the undershirt to pull it over his head and toss it away. 

He let Harold stand to step out of his pants. When he turned, naked now, and open to John's gaze, he  
looked unsure. He didn't move though, didn't try to hide, he let his arms loosely hang at his sides and stood just a bit straighter and let John roam his eyes over his body. Small and stocky, and slightly plump at the hips and stomach, with very white skin that obviously hadn't seen the sun in years. He met Harold's gaze, that fierce and stubborn look on his face. John's hands shook with the need to touch. He held out his hand. "Come here,” he whispered hoarsely. 

The beauty was of course that he didn't need to ask Harold what he could and couldn't do. He knew exactly what his body was capable of, which positions worked best, and which most likely did not since Harold had never tried them with any of those other people. 

When he helped Harold on the bed, they both moved to lie on their sides, facing each other.  
John moved forward and they kissed again, open-mouthed and desperate now. "Do you want to fuck me?” John whispered into his mouth, but Harold shook his head. 

"Maybe later,” he whispered back. "I would like...like this.” 

Heat pooled in John's stomach. Like this. Facing each other. Knowing it was each other. Not being able to escape the other one's look. Finch's hand was closing around his cock, and John strained against him. 

"Tell me how long you knew,” he whispered. He licked his hand once, twice, then scooted over, lined them up and closed his fist around both of them and Finch's hand. Finch moaned. His back prevented him from rocking into it, but he was blessedly capable with his hand. John mouthed his shoulder, then closed his mouth on the skin and started to suck as hard as he could until he was sure there would be a mark. "Harold...” he rasped. "Tell me.”

Harold was jerking them both off, alternating between moving with John's hand and in counter-rhythm with it. John had to bite him not too softly into the hickey he had just given him to get a reaction. Harold looked at him, his eyes wide, dark and looking almost feverish. 

"I didn't... the last one....from the book.” he faltered, swallowed hard, kept going. "He told me about a man that looked just like him paying him a visit...”

John moaned low in his throat. He surged forward, pushed against Harold. He let go of their cocks and let Harold do the work. Instead, he moved his hand over Harold's hip, down to his ass, between his cheeks. Harold felt sweaty, and John's hand slipped. He just grabbed harder, pulled himself closer. His fingertips brushed over his hole, and when Harold immediately urged him on, he did it again and again, each time slipping in a bit deeper.  
There was a moment when he thought he would be able to go on like this forever, their cocks rubbing against each other, Harold pressing their mouths together, his fingers at Harold's ass, thinking 'He would let me' at the back of his mind almost giddily. It wasn't the pleasure though, it was the closeness. It was being able to be with someone who knew everything about him, and still didn't find him lacking, but worthy. 

He pushed his finger into Harold as deep as he could and twisted until he found his prostate. "Show me,” he whispered, and rubbed hard. Harold gave him an annoyed look, before his body went rigid and he came silently, but open-mouthed and gasping. John watched him all through it, every look on his face, every twist of his mouth, or squeeze of his eyes. He moved his finger now and then, slow fucking motions, until Finch squirmed and mouthed "Stop, please.” because he was too sensitive and John's touch was bordering on pain. 

John wiped his finger on the sheet, then closed his fist around his own cock again. He was slippery and wet from sweat and come, and the slide was easy and smooth. He stared at Harold's face, kissed him, then started jerking off in earnest. Harold's hand clumsily closed around his and together they moved, Harold forcing a rhythm on John that was excruciatingly slow and soft. He was close, but he needed more. Just a little bit. 

He met Harold's eyes. Sweat was dripping in his eye, and he blinked it away. When he could see Harold again... Harold was smiling. 

John came, desperately and messily over both their hands. "Fuck,” he whispered. 

X

They allowed themselves half an hour of lying side by side, not touching but in companionable silence, before Finch said "Carol Abernathy." 

They cleaned up. John put on his suit, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Finch's precise fingers closing his belt and the buttons on his shirt, and putting his tie back on. The jacket came last, and he smoothed it down with both his hands before picking up his glasses. When he looked at John, nothing about the man in front of him reminded him even the slightest of the man he just had sex with. Until he smiled. 

"Shall we?" Finch asked softly. 

"Yes," Reese said. He was about to leave, but then stopped and turned to Finch again. "I don't want you to see those escorts again. Tell me now if that could be a problem."

Finch didn't even blink. "Not a problem, Mr. Reese," he said. 

Reese breathed out. He nodded once. 

They went to save lives. 

X

In September, someone pointed his gun at Finch again. Reese did not choke, he did not hesitate. He put that person down with a slam to his gun hand and another to his stomach. 

That night, he put Harold to bed and had him hold on to the headboard while he was on his hands and knees above him and licked him until he was trembling and ready. When he pushed into Harold, he thought of that gun, and how close it had been today, and he replaced the fear he had not let himself feel earlier with the absolute intimacy of the moment. 

Later, he kissed Harold's shoulder and stretched his arm out over his chest. Harold allowed it for a few moments, then pulled away to put some space between them. John let him, until only his hand was still touching his side. He softly rubbed the slightly pudgy skin over Harold's ribs. 

It was the night Finch told him his real birthday. John turned his head and looked at him then. Just looked, for a long time, until Finch's ears turned red from the scrutiny, and he realized that he didn't care if he understood every little thing about Finch. He understood enough. 

 

*****


End file.
